Monday. Putting the darks
into wash, mostly his.
Part of a great tradition,
I tell myself, stepping over
the cluster of statice
that has fallen
from the wreath on the door.
Reminding myself,
as I do when I remember,
the great necessity of motion
for me,
the silence of stillness
that settles over me
in a suffocating blur.
Temptations on the radio,
saws in the background.
What is this miracle
that moves the balance
from dark to light,
like a washing machine setting.
A temperate summer day,
daily life chores
and transcendent pursuits
perched like a new petal,
bowing and swaying with the breeze,
able in this moment,
to sustain the dance.

Making the bed
I think again,
how it is rhythm
not routine,
which works for me,
hungering, as I always am
for policy – if not truth –
or what might pass
as the illusion of it.

Grapes and cherries
in a bowl,
all but indistinguishable
at a casual glance,
except for size.
I resist making
something of it,
though I want to,
because it does not
easily give itself to me
and I am feeling lazy right now.

Weary of working
against the grain
of my own life,
trying to train myself
out of my natural tendencies,
to start and stop,
to pause when
my body now demands
what my spirit
has always wanted.

Sweep the floor again today,
just like yesterday
and the day before,
punctuate it with
a poem,
which tells the sweeping
that makes it possible,
along with the observation of
how well my percussion toy
matches my skirt.

A load of whites
and a bit of lunch,
gather the clumps of dirt,
we have brought home
like bouquets,
into the trash.
Three rooms of sweeping
is a threat to what
is trying to be born.

What if you only did
one thing at a time,
he said.
I would be dead,
I did not bother to answer.

Too long in one direction
and something goes dreadfully
the thing becomes itself.
Instead of being something you do,
it begins to do you,
demanding your continuation
when your back begins to hurt,
when the sweat runs down your face,
when you’re hungry
or need to go to the bathroom,
when you are just plain tired
or bored with it.

Task has become the master,
whipping you to stay in the chair,
hands upon the keys,
nagging you to keep sweeping,
to keep raking.
Allowing you no say
in the living
of your life.

New moth on a petal,
up and down,
back and forth
it moves,
in its first knowledge of life.
When pulse within
meets pulse without
and bobs about.

Slicing green beans into the pan
I sway to the left,
cutting the left tip
from the bean,
then to the right
in time with the music,
working the blade of the knife
against my thumb,
as I know I am not supposed to do,
but have always done.